


Handprints

by Tibby



Category: Thick of It (BBC)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Roughness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-13
Updated: 2010-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-10 13:03:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/100076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tibby/pseuds/Tibby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm and Ollie meet in the lift. Set just after the first episode of the third series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Handprints

Of course he knew that it had been Malcolm's work, getting Nicola to stand in front of that Liam Bentley sign, in the worst possible place. Ollie had been the one moving her around, and Terri had been the one directing him over the phone. But you only had to look at those 'I AM BENT' photos in _every_ paper to see Malcolm's malevolent handprint. Nicola was a colleague; who knows what he'd do if he was ever left in a room with members of the opposition.

Ollie thought about it as he waited for the lift. On reflection, the most he could be thankful for was that he wasn't fighting a war with the maniac. At least Malcolm wasn't armed. Ollie wondered just how much arse he'd have to lick to stay safe in that situation. His best bet would probably be to fake a Scottish accent and hope that he could keep it up under gunfire.

The lift door slid open and there was (of course; brilliant luck; for fuck's sake) Malcolm. Ollie ducked his head slightly and stepped in.

Ollie made the smallest sign of acknowledgement possible. Malcolm kept his eyes on his Blackberry. Then the doors closed and the customary awkward silence fell. You can't stand in a lift without it. Take away the awkward silence and you might actually have found a pleasant way of not walking up stairs, and then you'd be rich. Ollie, in an attempt to dispel the quiet, considered mentioning this. Instead, he waited a few moments and found something better to say.

"So you got what you wanted?"

"What?"

"You got what you wanted from Nicola. She says she's sending her daughter to the local state school. I know you take your job seriously, but putting her through all that on her first day… Don't you feel even a little sorry for her?"

"Fuck off," said Malcolm, as he pocketed the Blackberry and turned to face Ollie. He glanced at his watch as he continued to speak, "You're fucking right I take my job seriously. And she'd better take hers seriously too. You know what the most important part of hers is? To take shit from me. How else would we get things done?"

Ollie opened his mouth to answer but no answer emerged.

"Anyway," Malcolm continued, "Don't pretend you're her guardian angel, weeping with sorrow. You've got about as much sympathy for her as I have."

Ollie conceded this point with a nod. At the end of the day, the best to be said of his conscience was that he might have felt a bit bad for Nicola if he hadn't been happy simply to not be in her place.

"So Nicola takes shit from you. We take slightly jollier, amiable shit from Nicola. Is that how the wheel of politics turns?"

"You tell me. You got a degree in it didn't you?"

"Yeah, I did but…" Ollie considered how to put forward the point that what politics really seemed to take, according to Malcolm's methods, was a huge shit tornado that had shit for everyone. He gave up quickly.

Malcolm gave him a smile and put a hand to his shoulder. He seemed to know what Ollie had been thinking, because he said, sweetly, "If you're jealous of Nicola getting all the rough treatment, you just tell Malcolm and I'll try to sort something out."

"Oh right," said Ollie, "I'd love that. Really."

Malcolm gave a sharp push where his hand was on Ollie's shoulder. This took Ollie by surprise but the alarm only lasted a moment. His eyes had met Malcolm's and he knew immediately what was happening. Ollie quickly protested, and half-heartedly tried to believe that he was full of conviction.

Malcolm brought his other hand to Ollie's hip, forcing him back against the wall of the lift. He followed immediately, shifting close against Ollie's body and nipping him hard on the neck. Ollie swore loudly and grabbed hold of Malcolm's waist. Malcolm, meanwhile, put his tongue to the spot he'd just bitten and raised his fingers to comb Ollie's slight curls. He bit again, this time Ollie's ear, and he smiled as Ollie swore again, more softly, and impulsively pressed harder against Malcolm's body. Malcolm's lips hovered at Ollie's jaw.

Ollie happened to glance up just as the doors began to open. Before he could even think, he had shoved Malcolm away from him and leapt to the other side of the lift. Malcolm merely smirked complacently. Once Ollie had recovered his breath, they walked out of the lift together, knocking the shoulders of a few people hurrying to get in.

"That's the ninth time you've done that," Ollie sighed, once they had made it to an open space, "One more time and I'm…"

He was about to say something about sexual harassment when his phone started ringing.

Malcolm left him to answer it.

 

Later, when Ollie was standing at the bathroom sink, brushing his teeth, he noticed that Malcolm had pushed him harder than he'd previously thought. There was a small bruise, just on the turn of his shoulder. He poked it tentatively; it didn't hurt. It only reminded him of the push, and the subsequent pressure of Malcolm's body. He felt for the place where Malcolm had bitten his neck. There was a little bruising there too.

He rinsed his toothbrush. Then, feeling increasingly self-conscious, he touched his hip, feeling for the other, less noticeable traces of Malcolm's hands. He shook his head, then, trying to empty his head of the thought. But it didn't help.

On his way to bed, he picked up the phone. He could call Emma, but he wouldn't. He was just about decent enough to not do that. He could call Malcolm, but he definitely would not. He had _some_ pride.

In the end, he lay in bed and thought of Malcolm and thought of Emma and thought of Malcolm. He thought of them in as many possible combinations as he could until he was worn out, frustrated, sated and spent.

Even after that, he touched, again, the bruise on his shoulder. He probably didn't even realise that he still had his hand upon it as he drifted uneasily to sleep. He thought of the next time he might be alone in the lift with Malcolm. Next time, definitely next time, he was the one who was going to take charge.


End file.
